


Man In The Mirror

by thebittermountain



Series: Endgame AU [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Mother-Son Relationship, Natasha Romanov Lives, Peggy Carter Lives, Polyamory, Scientist Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Tony Stark Lives, qpr, steve rogers goes to college
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 06:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19824070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebittermountain/pseuds/thebittermountain
Summary: In which Steve and Bucky begin to live life again.





	Man In The Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from the song by J2

_New York City, Brooklyn VA Office, New York_

Greer Sellars pushed his glasses up as he stared at the man at front of him. When he went into the VA after getting discharged, he had never anticipated something like this. He really didn’t want to have to tell Captain America his veteran and financial situation. Before he could say anything, the other man smiled tightly.

“Lay it on me, Captain Sellars. What’s wrong?” Greer sighed, and leaned forward.

“Sir—” Captain America waved a hand at him dismissively.

“Don’t call me sir. If you have to stand on rank, use Lieutenant-Colonel.” Greer blinked, and nodded before picking through the papers until he found the most immediately relevant one.

“You _are_ entitled to a pension and a retirement plan. Luckily, your reinstatement papers were filed initially by Director Carter, and then certified by her successor and Phillip Coulson. The President and the Secretary of Defense both had them verified. So, Lieutenant-Colonel Rogers, you’re a lot better off than most people who contact me for help.” Captain America nodded, obviously thinking as he fiddled with the sleeves of his button-down. Finally, he cleared his throat before saying,

“I have two major questions right now. One, do I qualify for the GI bill benefits? And two, if I went through with a legal name change, would it affect my benefits?” Greer couldn’t prevent his mouth from dropping open in shock, but he recovered quickly.

“It depends,” he said, in a much calmer voice than he felt. “Right now, trans individuals are officially barred from the military, so unfortunately, that would bar you from benefits. But, if you’re changing your name for another reason, it should be fine, as long as you get all your documents in order.” Captain America frowned, and Greer could swear he heard him mutter “fucking bigots,” but elected to act as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

A feeling of surrealism only growing, Greer moved on.

“Now, you should also qualify for the GI Bill, again, if you file the papers correctly, and have someone to help you, which I am willing to do.” Captain America nodded again.

“Thank you, Captain.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it in a way Greer couldn’t help but find attractive, but he was a professional, so he ignored it, clearing his throat.

“The bad news is that, while the GI bill will give you a full ride to most colleges, especially with your history of service, and if you find the right health program, most of your medical expenses will be covered, the pension won’t be enough to live on.” Captain America shrugged, not even looking that upset.

“Not a big deal. I know how to live on a shoestring budget, even if everything is more expensive now.” Greer stared at him for a long few minutes.

“Aren’t…aren’t you going to ask Tony Stark for help? Or any of your coworkers?” He managed finally. Captain America scoffed, shaking his head.

“Nah. Even if Stark and I were friends, I don’t freeload. Nat doesn’t need that stress right now, and Stark is the only wealthy one of us. Well, beside the Pyms.” He shrugged. “Not to mention, I’m retiring. Plus, I’m a socialist. Why would I take advantage of a circumstance that applies to very few others?” Greer wasn’t quite sure how to respond, a situation that he had a feeling was likely to become even more common in the future.

When he found his words again, he decided to avoid Cap’s previous words, and address another issue.

“You implied you wanted to change your name. I would advise doing it either as soon as possible, before you enroll in college, or do it after you’re done. Those would cause the least problems.”

* * *

_NYU—New York University Campus, NYC, NY_

Professor Mirela Andrei fiddled with her projector, cursing her diminutive height. She just about jumped out of her pumps when someone spoke behind her.

“Ma’am, would you like some help?” She turned around, cursing in Romanian, and immediately had to look up. And up. A very tall man with the dress sense of either a lumberjack or a 1940s-era working man was looming over her with a sheepish expression.

“Excuse me?” She asked, probably more snappishly than she actually meant to. He rubbed the back of his neck, face red.

“Sorry, you’re Professor Andrei, yeah? I’m Grant Sarah, I’m in your History of Psychology and Psychiatry class this semester. I was early, and I heard you cursing…” he trailed off, and now it was Mirela’s turn to blush.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sarah. I swear I’m not usually this grumpy. Yes, I would appreciate your help.” He shrugged, face still red, as he moved under the projector.

“It’s fine. I did startle you, after all.” 

* * *

Mirela enjoyed having Grant Sarah in her class. Not only did he ask thoughtful questions, he had a surprisingly wicked sense of humor, that nonetheless, never showed up at bad times. In fact, he managed to break up some tense moments with a well-placed joke. She liked to think he enjoyed her class. She was right.

One day in his sophomore year, he plopped down on the chair across from her desk, looking unusually tired (most of the time he was unfairly and unfailingly perky, especially for someone who she suspected might be closer to her age than most of her students).

“Hello, Grant. What can I do for you? Do you need an extension on your project?” He shook his head, sighing. He leaned forward, his hands clasped together, his eyes wide in a way that was uncomfortably puppy-like.

“Please, please, please, would you be my advisor starting next year?” She blinked, fiddling with the papers on her desk only to have something to occupy her hands. Finally, she said,

“You know I only advise graduate students, Grant.” He nodded, still unnervingly earnest.

“But it’s not a school policy, just your practice.” He gained a sly look that was somehow more reassuring than his earnestness. “If I have to listen to Patters for two more years, I’m going to fucking explode.” Mirela couldn’t resist chuckling.

“He is an ass. Unfortunately, he’s also a well-connected ass. What’s he been saying to you?” She didn’t miss how Grant’s hands clenched, white-knuckled, on the arm rests.

“Oh, I can give you a whole list, Mirela. I just want to know why the _fuck_ he’s still practicing.” Mirela stiffened, now seriously worried. She almost didn’t want to know what line Patters crossed, but she asked anyways.

“Grant, what did he do? Does he need to be reported to the APA?” Grant dropped his head into his hands, groaning.

“He should be from the bigotry and outright lies he spouts. Not to mention, the way he talks about his female advisees and clients. But I don’t know if it’s enough to oust him.” Mirela’s blood ran cold at what he was implying.

“Grant. Does he reveal their names? The clients?” He lifted his head, frowning, and obviously thinking as he twisted his long, shaggy mop of hair into a bun. Mirela tried to conceal her impatience and worry. Finally, he said,

“Yeah, a few. Is that enough…?” She nodded brusquely.

“It’s enough launch an inquiry, at the very least. If you can find witnesses among his advisees, that might be enough to at least get him fired, since he doesn’t have tenure.” Grant blew out a long, clearly relieved breath.

“Thank you, Mirela.” She shook her head.

“Not at all. We need to know about this sort of thing. _I_ should be thanking _you_ for bringing to my attention.” She gave him a longer look. He looked terrible. “Grant…when was the last time you slept? Or ate, for that matter?” He only shrugged, and Mirela was reminded viscerally of her eldest, Damir, when she asked him if he’d remembered to eat breakfast. She sighed, and stood up, stretching. “Look, if I get together an impromptu departmental inquiry meeting at The Book, will you eat while we’re there?” Grant snorted.

“Are you mothering me?”

“Would you mind?”

“Actually, no.”

* * *

Mirela did become Grant’s advisor. It turned out to be easier than they expected to get Patters fired. It was considerably less easy to get his license revoked, but eventually they managed. She was one of the proudest people there when he successfully defended his masters thesis. But not _the_ proudest. No, that honor belonged to his family.

“Mirela! Get over here!”

“Yes? Why are you yelling at me like you need me to squash a spider?” She heard a choked off laugh, and turned around to be faced with her protégé, who was surrounded by a crush of people of vastly varying ages, sizes, and appearances. Grant was grinning widely.

“Mirela, this is Maggie,” A polished looking British woman with stylishly emphasized greying hair shook her hand.

“Magdalene Carver. A pleasure. St-Grant’s told me a lot about you.” Mirela smiled.

“Should I be worried? He hasn’t told me anything about you.” A new voice broke in, with the same Brooklyn accent as Grant, this time coming from a youngish man who looked peculiarly familiar.

“Nah, Grant’s just private like that. But he likes you.” Grant elbowed him, muttering something that sounded distinctly like “jerk.” The other man muttered “punk”, prompting the third adult in this miniature crowd to sigh (in a very long-suffering manner), and ask,

“Why do I live with you?” Mirela laughed, and Magdalene said, a twinkle in her eye,

“Because of me, Sam, darling. I add an element of class.” Sam shook his head, but he was smiling.

“As Maggie said, I’m Sam. Sam Wilson.” He jerked a thumb over to the still oddly familiar man next to Grant. “And that ass is Wolfe Rogers.” The redhead next to him was smirking as she held out her hand.

“Natalya Rozanova. Grant’s best friend.” After several minutes of children shouting for her attention, Mirela was ready to leave Grant to his family. As she was turning to leave, he caught her eye.

“Mirela, we’re going out for dinner. Wanna come with?” She shrugged, using the moment to observe the other adults. None of them looked dismayed or annoyed, although she was slightly concerned by Natalya’s continued smirk.

“Depends. Where are you going?”

_Chelsea and Hell’s Kitchen_

Over the next few years, Grant becomes family. So do his partners. And his kids. Saraid Rogers is the image of his attitude, and with her skinny frame, apparently more than a bit reminiscent of Grant’s few childhood photos that she’s seen. Thankfully, Saraid is much healthier than her Da apparently was. Mícheál Carver-Wilson can imitate Maggie’s accent and voice so well, he’s given them all a fright more than once. The twins, Íomhar and Eachann Wilson-Carver, are a handful and a half. Once the fifth baby is born, Mirela wonders how they keep up, even with four adults and presumably Natalya as a babysitter.

But it isn’t until about five years in, when Grant’s entire clan has come over for Saturday night dinner one evening, that someone slips and calls her mom. Well, to be precise, it isn’t just one of them, and mom is a generalization. What actually happens is this:

“Mama, would you explain this again?” Cătălin, back from college, is puzzling over a break assignment, and Mirela is distracted. So, when somebody yells from the dining room,

“Thanks for the dinner, Mam, it was brilliant!” Mirela nods and says,

“You’re welcome,” without really processing it until a silence falls. She looks up to find Grant staring at her with a red face, while Wolfe snickers with a suspicious flush to his cheeks, and Maggie looks faintly embarrassed. Sam and Natalya are the only ones not looking awkward. Even Dragos looks startled. Mirela blinks at Grant, who blinks back. The silence continues.

Now the children are staring from their little table. Finally, Mirela pushes her glasses up on her nose, and says,

“I was wondering when that would happen. Though Maggie, aren’t you older than me?” Suddenly, everyone except Sam is looking everywhere but at her for some strange reason. Sam shrugs, saying,

“My mom’s still alive.” Mirela shakes her head slightly, smiling. That was not what she was wondering, and he knows it. She sighs and sits back down at the table.

“I can see this is all a long story. But we are family, no? So, let us please not have any secrets between each other.”

* * *

It takes a few false starts, but finally Mirela and Dragos get into their new sons’ heads that they meant it when Mirela called them family. Naturally Maggie is much more sensible, as is Natalya.

She appreciates why her new four oldest children were worried about their reaction, but they aren’t the only ones who have left old lives behind to live for themselves. Mirela and Dragos might not have saved the world multiple times, but they do understand risking everything for happiness.

The children help too. Damir and Cătălin love having older brothers and sisters, and the younger ones love having more family their own age. All the adults appreciate more people to watch the kids.

* * *

Mirela can’t help feeling a little sad when they help move the Wilson-Rogers-Carvers into Hell’s Kitchen. She’s going to miss having her kids and grandkids next door. But she isn’t surprised. Sam and Wolfe might have been happy staying where they were, but Grant and Maggie were clearly getting restless.

Well. They were still only a phone call or subway ride away.


End file.
